


The Good Ones

by Starrii



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Out of Character, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:17:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrii/pseuds/Starrii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty <em>would</em> use that as a pick-up line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Ones

**Author's Note:**

> Old version archived on FF.net as "These Precious Hours." The summary is lifted from a review on that site. This version is edited but not brit-picked and beta-d by myself to the best of my ability (aka not at all.) It's also OOC, but I try, I really do. I don't really like this, but I was itching to post _something_.

He was on his way home from Tesco—meals were hard to scam out of Mrs. Hudson when a pale Sherlock wasn't around to awaken her maternal sensibilities—when a luxury black sedan with tinted windows pulled up beside him. This was a scene that was becoming alarmingly commonplace.

"Oh, no," He groaned as the perfectly average day he had planned out in the wake of Sherlock's absence fell apart at the seams, "No, no, no,  _no_."

The backseat window rolled down, revealing a familiar smiling face. "John, dear! Fancy seeing you here, would you like a ride?" to the shopping bags at John's side.

John smiled thinly, then squared his shoulders and marched forward with grim determination. Maybe if he pretended nothing out of the ordinary was happening he'd get a break for once.

No such luck.

"There's a cannibal clamouring for my help on kidnapping some newborns," Moriarty's cheerful voice piped up from behind John. "He says he has a delightful new recipe he wants to try out. Some type of stew."

"That's actually really disgusting," John couldn't help but snap, although he didn't stop walking.

"It is most distasteful," Moriarty agreed quickly. "But money is money, and a general consultant like me can't afford to turn away jobs."

"You don't care about money," John pointed out before he could stop himself.  _Damn it_. Ignore the megalomaniac crime lord John Watson. Do not urge him on.

Moriarty's voice sounded pleased, and surprised, "Oh, but I do. I have a delightful little flat here in central London I've become rather attached to, and my landlady isn't nearly  _quite_  as accommodating as yours. Besides, I think the ensuing chaos would be a lot of fun, don't you agree?"

"That's really Sherlock's area, Moriarty, not mine." John replied tightly, scanning the vicinity for familiar CCTV cameras. Mycroft kept tabs on him, he knew he did. There were none that he could see, and he had become quite adept at spotting them in recent months. He cursed, "I don't understand why you think I want to know all of this."

"Stop that," Moriarty admonished, a deceptively light threat threading through his tone. John averted his gaze immediately, all too aware of Moriarty and his distasteful habit of offing people at random when he started feeling neglected. Attention whore. "And this ignorance is very unbecoming of you John. Especially when it's feigned."

John slowed.

"I'm thinking dinner."

"I'd rather not," John replied in prim politeness.

"Cannibal, John," Moriarty chided, as if  _John_ was the one being the unreasonable lunatic.

John scowled, his tone accusatory, "You sick bastard, you'd do it whether I go out to dinner with you or not."

"Perhaps," Moriarty acquiesced. John finally stilled. Moriarty allowed himself a small smile; after all, John wasn't looking, and the blond man was so  _cute_ when Moriarty could see those little cogs in his brain turning.

"But I can't be sure."

 _Aw,_ he was  _fishing_.

"You can't," Moriarty agreed amicably. "We can go for lunch instead if you'd prefer that."

"Sherlock wouldn't like that," John scrambled for an excuse. Not that John cared about what Sherlock thought, exactly. And he had said so to Sherlock, in very loud tones, just the night before. But the subject of dating Sarah and going out to dinner with Moriarty wasn't really comparable, even John knew _that_.

" _Sherlock,_ " Moriarty frowned, "is not your keeper. And he's in the continent right now. There's no reason why he should know." Never mind that Moriarty was probably going to gloat endlessly after the man came back.

"Coffee," John bartered.

Jim Moriarty sighed inaudibly and allowed himself a moment of self-pity—really, why was this so difficult; he should just box the man up and be done with all this nonsense—but as his Ma always said, 'When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.' Moriarty was a firm believer in this brand of optimism and applied it to many areas of his life with great effect. There was no reason it wouldn't work in this situation as well, albeit it was coming along slowly.

He took a moment to admire the distinct colour of John Watson's hair under the afternoon sun, how adorable the man looked in his grey Aran jumper, and the way his arse curved so nicely under his camel corduroy pants.

 _The good ones,_  he consoled himself,  _are well worth the extra effort._

"A coffee date it is then," he relented. "I'll call you tomorrow to set up the time."

With that the tinted window rolled up as the luxury sedan glided away, leaving John Watson behind to sputter incoherently on the side of the road.


End file.
